


A Study In Reflexology

by keelywolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all the dangerous situations Sherlock tended to run into with nary a consideration to the risks, it always astonished John how often he managed to escape without a scratch or a bruise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For all the dangerous situations Sherlock tended to run into with nary a consideration to the risks, it always astonished John how often he managed to escape without a scratch or a bruise. Bombs, guns, knives, even the occasional sword and Sherlock managed to slither through without needing so much as a plaster. Frankly, it was a waste of John's skill as a doctor, not that he was complaining. Some skills were better left unused. 

So it was a first for them to end up chasing the criminal in their bare feet. He was a proclaimed self-help guru and his house had been filled with an assortment of so-called confidence builders; board-breaking, firewalking and the like. John had been stymied at the first hallway, unwilling to slash his feet on a carpet of shattered bottles. 

Trust Sherlock to run through half a ballroom of broken glass without a nick and then cut his foot on the single piece of glass lying in the filthy alleyway outside.

They'd stood there afterward talking to Lestrade, John watching the slow transition from white to crimson of the handkerchief Sherlock had wrapped around his foot until his doctorly hackles had risen to levels that could no longer stand it. This unnecessary chatting about a case in the middle of a dirty alley, God knew what kind of germs and disease he was picking up, grinding into that barely bound cut. Sherlock could probably tell him and add in the incubation rates on the side but all John could think of was tetanus and the need for a good dose of antibiotics before his foot rotted off.

For once, he'd been the one to call it off, tell Lestrade he'd have to wait to get the rest of his questions answered. John had cut off his protests with military sharpness that the local London police force hadn't often seen, familiar as slipping into an old glove for him. Sherlock only raised one curious eyebrow and allowed John to collect him up. Couldn't very well disobey a direct order from his personal physician, now could he, or at least that's what he'd tossed over his shoulder at Lestrade, one arm over John's shoulder as they limped up to the main road to hail a cab. 

The ride back to Baker Street had been filled with an exhausted, uncommon silence, John glancing at Sherlock from time to time, gauging the faint tightness around his lips. Now that the thrill of the chase was wearing off, it probably hurt. John kept his peace about it for now, unwilling to draw the cabbie's attention to the fact that one of his passengers was currently bleeding on his already less-than-pristine floorboards, though he did make sure to give him a hefty tip from Sherlock's billfold. 

Interesting, he supposed, that they had enough experience in limping up the stairwell that they managed it with perfect choreography. Perhaps he needed to rethink their list of injuries, John decided, trying not to let Sherlock leak any more blood on the carpet than was strictly necessary. They already owed extra on the rent for the sewer incident, or was that last month? Honestly, he was going to have to start reading his own blog. Perhaps he just needed a good night's sleep, stop his thoughts from running in giddy circles. 

"Shower first," John ordered, taking a moment to gather their coats, and Sherlock went without protest, door still half-open as he turned the water up as hot as the rickety old pipes allowed, steam pouring out to fog the mirror.

He waited until Sherlock was in it, curtain pulled, before stepping into the bathroom after him. The sink in here didn't require a thorough cleaning like the one in the kitchen usually did after Sherlock poured his vile concoctions down the drain. John scrubbed his hands up to the elbows, lathered them well and made sure to get under the nails. Old habits, Christ, yes, old, rarely used anymore since he'd become more blogger than doctor. 

It didn't bother him often and just now he was happy to have the skills and the equipment, what with Sherlock's general dislike of doctors that he didn't live with, or really, his general dislike of all people. Made the evening a little easier and after shrapnel wounds and bullet holes, John could deal with a simple cut. 

He got out his kit while Sherlock was still in the shower, pulling bandages out of their sterile wrappings and laying them out on the table, setting up the sutures. Puttering about until Sherlock came out in his dressing gown with a limp nearly as generous as John's former. He frowned at neat supplies on the table and whether it was because there was no pot of tea included, John wasn't sure. 

"Come on then, let's see it," John gestured at the chair. He hooked a short stool with one foot, tugging it over to sit down. 

"I've already looked at it; it's fine, allowing it to bleed freely will help clean the wound," Sherlock said, eyeing the chair with a deep distrust that had John blinking in confusion. 

"No, allowing it to bleed freely will invite infection, scarring, possible nerve damage, and it will make a mess. Sit down and let me have a look."

For a moment, John was sure Sherlock was going to storm away, possibly lock himself in his bedroom in a bewildering attempt to keep John from doing something as simple as looking at his feet. If he had done, John would have dug out the door keys if only because it would be quite high on his mental list of boorishly childish things Sherlock had done. He was standing there _bleeding_ for pity's sake, and he was trying to come up with a reason to keep doing it.

Whatever John was thinking was surely quite visible on his face, certainly to Sherlock and after a moment, Sherlock gave an aggrieved sigh, flinging himself into the chair and holding his foot up in resentful offering.

"Cheers," John muttered, cupping the heel in both hands and tilting it so he could get a proper look. It was a deep cut, straight across the pad on the ball of his foot. It was still bleeding sluggishly but the edges were clean and there was no indication of severed arteries or tendons. Must be painful; as gentle as he had been, Sherlock had gone rigid the moment John had moved his foot.

"Right," John said. Carefully, he propped Sherlock's foot on his knee, reaching for the antiseptic swabs. "You got it clean enough, I think, needs a few stitches and for you to be careful for a couple of days—"

"I don't need stitches," Sherlock said tightly and John paused, just about to tear into the little packet of disinfecting wipes. To his surprise, Sherlock was gripping the arms of the chair with whitened fingers, his lips a tightly pressed line, every muscle in his body quivering, as if he was only just suppressing his urge to yank his foot away.

Biting off his somewhat more scathing retort of just who was the doctor here, John managed a somewhat gentler, "It really does so it can heal properly. Is it paining you that badly, I can give you a shot of lidocaine--

"Just get on with it," Sherlock snapped out impatiently and with a bit of a worried glance, John did. 

In a proper surgery, he'd be wearing gloves, not just relying on the cleaning properties of antibacterial hand soap. But then, he'd treated much more complicated injuries covered in filth and ducking from explosions overhead. It wasn't a flashback he was getting now from his bare hands on Sherlock's bare feet, though, it was…John wasn't entirely sure what it was.

He shook it off and went to work, the task so familiar it was almost by rote. Antiseptic first, then stitches, gauging the distance between each carefully, bottom of the foot was a delicate place for a scar. Too much tension in the suture and the skin would tear, not enough and it wouldn't hold closed. John was utterly focused, barely noticing each tiny flinch as the needle penetrated skin. A sudden jerk caught him off guard and he tightened his grip almost too late, holding Sherlock's foot immobile. 

"Sherlock, you need to hold still," John said, gripping one bony ankle firmly to ensure it. "I'm nearly done."

He managed another stitch before Sherlock gritted out, "I don't like people to touch my feet."

"Never would have guessed," John said wryly. Two stitches left, maybe three. "But I'm hardly 'people', am I?" A long silence followed and John was knotting the end when Sherlock spoke again. 

"No, you're not." The low, dark tone made John look up, met stormy gray eyes with his own. The silence hung between them, palpable, until John finally tore his gaze away, back down to the foot still resting in his lap.

"Right then," John said, clearing his throat against a sudden hoarseness "Let's just get this bandaged up."

Automatic to say but the moment he did, John expected Sherlock to protest that he was perfectly able to bandage his own foot, thank you very much, and John was very welcome to let him go and let him be, and should be off to make them some tea. 

Nothing. No words, only a soft, indrawn breath followed by an equally soft exhale and after a moment, John put words to action, dabbing on a little ointment and covering it with a sterile bandage, winding the gauze precisely around to hold it in place. 

The bare skin against his own caught John's attention again, a pale contrast to his hands. Sherlock was still warm from the shower, John noted absently, the chill of the floor hadn't had a chance to seep in. Soft, soft skin, thin and delicate as a baby's bum over the strong, slim lines of his bones, their structure visible with every involuntary flex of his foot. Sherlock had long, narrow feet and John realized he was stroking this one almost meditatively, tracing the bluish lines visible beneath the nearly translucent paleness. Sherlock was as motionless as a statue cast in porcelain. 

John forced his hands to still, one cupping Sherlock's heel and the other wrapped around, his thumb resting on the tender skin beneath the bandage. He could feel Sherlock's pulse or perhaps it was his own, the thin, rapid beat of it in his thumb, throbbing in his ears. Oh, John Watson, what are you doing, what are you thinking of doing…

Mycroft had once compared bravery to stupidity, called it the noblest form of it. John couldn't say which it was that made him look up again, made him stroke his thumb down the line of Sherlock's foot, back up again, just to see that touch crackle in Sherlock's eyes. 

In his eyes, those eyes that saw entirely too much with far too little effort, darkened and resting on John right now but it was his mouth that had John's attention, his lower lip was reddened, faintly swollen, the indent of his teeth still visible from him biting it. 

"You know, some people believe that all the parts of the body are connected through the feet," John said conversationally. Inanely, Sherlock would probably say.

He didn't, his tongue a flicker of pink over his lips as he wet them. "Reflexology. Applied pressure causes a reaction in the part of the body that reflects its image in the feet or hands."

"Interesting."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock corrected. "A thousand years of placebo effect transference into belief—" his voice rose sharply, hitting an octave that John was sure he hadn't managed since before puberty, dissolving into a groan as John pressed both thumbs into sole of his foot, working against the tense muscles and watched as Sherlock squirmed in his seat, the leather chair creaking as he sank down, those knowing eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments. 

They opened again the instant John let up on the pressure, boring down on him. "John." 

It was only his name, just a word, simple enough, but in that tone it became a warning, almost a plea, and John felt like he was sinking into quicksand, threads of reality and sense snapping away. 

Decisions, right, bravery or stupidity, and John didn't care which as he leaned in and pressed his lips against the soft, clean skin at the arch of Sherlock's foot. He had to hold on as Sherlock abruptly thrashed against him, nearly tearing his foot away and from the sound he made it would have been entirely unintentional. Lovely sounds, a deep, guttural moan coupled with almost graceless squirming, trying to get away, not trying, John didn't know, didn't care, couldn't care as he licked that soft skin, tasting soap and the bitter tang of antiseptic. Helplessly, John buried his face against the sole of his foot, inhaling deeply and blowing his breath back out into it, and Christ, the sounds Sherlock could make.

"John…" His name again, a thin, reedy little gasp that he rewarded by sinking his teeth into Sherlock's heel, sucking the tougher skin hard as Sherlock gasped over him, curling over John's bowed head. A strong hand scrabbled against his own, painfully tight as it tore his grip away from Sherlock's ankle and he didn't have a moment to consider where it had been relocated, the briefest second of hot, stretched skin against his hand before a spurt of liquid heat scorched against his palm and Sherlock groaned deep in his ear, leaning against him heavily. 

Oh, dear Christ. 

John swallowed hard against the sudden thickness in his throat, mind awhirl as he tried to take this all in. All right, he'd started with basic first aid and ended in…he wasn't even sure. Sherlock was nearly in his lap, both arms around John, clinging, his head against John's shoulder as he panted. His foot was still between them, propped on the footstool between John's legs in a way that would be an awkward contortion even if Sherlock wasn't a tall man. John still had one hand curled around it and the other was…ah, yes, he hastily withdrew it from beneath Sherlock's dressing gown, scrubbing it against the leg of his jeans to wipe away the dampness. 

Like a marionette suddenly brought to life by its puppeteer, Sherlock snapped upright, fingers digging in to John's shoulders. His face was close enough that John could see the faint threads of red in the sclera of his eyes, tiredness echoed in the faint shadows beneath. And his mouth, lips parted as he breathed, still heavily, still panting, oh, right, panting because he'd just come, John had just made him come, made Sherlock, and his mouth was so close to John's, and Sherlock had just come but John was still hard as a stone, thoughts running in white rabbit circles and he just—

"Oh," John said, helplessly, and leaned in to kiss him. 

He felt as much as heard Sherlock draw in a sharp breath, his mouth was open and wet against John's and tasted like mint, toothpaste, John registered dimly. His tongue was lax against John's, unmoving, and John didn't care, didn’t care, only kissed him harder, wanted to memorize this. He didn't have Sherlock's memory or his mind but right now, John had his mouth and he wanted, fuck, he _wanted_.

He hadn't even decided what he wanted when Sherlock's mouth abruptly came to life, moving against his own with sharp, deliberate pressure. The world tilted and it wasn't until the floor was hard and cold under him that John realized it wasn't the world falling, only him, off the footstool and onto the heavy rug. Would have cracked his head on the hearth if a large hand hadn't been cradling it, protecting it, no, not only him falling, Sherlock was with him, sprawled over him, his thin dressing gown no barrier at all. 

_Wait, wait, I just_ —But the words were only in John's head, never even close to his lips and it wouldn't have mattered if they were. Sherlock held his mouth, owned it with slick precision, and while John might have wanted a moment to try to think, Sherlock didn't seem willing to allow it. 

Not when he could push John down, no, hold him down, John realized dimly, Sherlock's hands on his shoulders were nearly pinning him to the floor, his long legs straddling John, not quite right and then he twisted his hips just so.

"Augh," John yelped out, muffled between their mouths as most of Sherlock's not inconsiderable weight pressed perfectly against the hard length of his cock and just like that, he gave up on thinking, let Sherlock do the thinking for them, he was better at it. It was easier to concentrate on rocking his hips up, grinding against the hard line of Sherlock's hip, obvious even through his trousers. 

Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and the whine of protest that escaped John might have been, was actually, humiliating, only Sherlock pressed his lips against John's chin, down the line of his jaw to his ear.

"Let me," Sherlock whispered, demanded, and John mindlessly agreed, already nodding foolishly even before he felt the waist of his trousers loosened, his belt gone in a flash and his fly tugged open. Long, clever fingers against him, drawing his cock free with unexpected, obvious expertise, drawing down the length over and over, tracing unknown symbols against hot, taut skin until John sobbed out a protesting moan, trying to thrust up against Sherlock's weight.

"That's it, that's it, John," Sherlock crooned, oh, that lovely voice, hot and deep against John's ear. It was unfair in all the best ways, Sherlock so brilliant and aloof, sensual and yet untouchable. Only not now, not now because he was touching, he was, his grip circling John's cock, hands tight and quick with sweet, perfect friction. "Let me see it, let me."

With a low curse, John turned towards that voice, blindly searching for and finding Sherlock's mouth, cutting off the dark flow of words just as John shuddered and came, spilling hot over the tight clasp of Sherlock's hands. Dimly glad for the gag in the shape of Sherlock's soft, swollen lips, stifling his whimpering of oh, oh, god, oh, oh, _yes_ oh…

It took a moment, a few moments really, for it to sink in but when it did, the knowledge was inescapable. The floor was cold and hard, rug notwithstanding, Sherlock was heavy, they were both a sticky mess and, oh, yes, let's not forget that Sherlock had just given him a wank in the middle of their sitting room floor. 

Opening his eyes seemed like more of a chore than it was worth at the moment and while the temptation was there to simply stay on the floor until perhaps one of the above issues changed, the coldness of the floor itself was starting to make unpleasant aches known. 

A deep, heartfelt sigh was all he could spare and then John opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him-- and that was no surprise at all. 

"Look…"John started, hesitantly.

"Are you going to have some kind of heterosexual crisis just now?" Sherlock interrupted, tapping his fingers in an impatient rhythm on John's chest. "Because if so, I'd like to remind you that I specifically told you I don't like people touching my feet—"

"You did, yes," John mumbled.

"It's also getting quite late, you're exhausted, you haven't slept in over twenty hours and you should at the very least wash up before going to bed, preferably showering otherwise you're going to be quite uncomfortable in the morning—"

"Might just, you're right—" John considered again staying on the floor for the rest of the night.

"Therefore, I think you should wait and have your crisis in the morning when you're better rested," Sherlock finished. He twisted into a stretch that John could only envy and finally slid off John's lap to his feet. The floor was no less spectacularly hard while he watched Sherlock straighten his dressing gown but the strange ache that spread in his chest when Sherlock reached out a hand to help him up wasn't quite unpleasant. 

"Go take a shower, John," Sherlock steadied him when John wobbled, his eyes dropping down to the floor, catching on the whiteness of the gauze on Sherlock's foot as he stepped towards the desk with a bare limp. "And do stop thinking so loudly."

"Right, right," John mumbled, wondering how his thoughts could possibly be loud when it felt like his brain had been replaced by an overcooked pudding. Surely a feeble plop was the only sound it was capable of at the moment, "Don't like people touching your feet."

There was sudden warmth against his back, silken touch of a dressing gown coupled with hands on his upper arms, gripping, as Sherlock leaned down to murmur against his ear in a wash of warm breath, "You're hardly 'people', John."

"Oh," John whispered, voice cracking as he blinked too much in the dim light, and to bloody hell with a crisis, any crisis as he turned towards that voice, tipped up his head and let Sherlock kiss him. 

fin


	2. An Examination in Phrenology

It wasn’t that John didn’t understand why he was occasionally left behind. Once Sherlock’s train of thought made it on the rails, there was little that could slow it down and if someone was occasionally left behind in the course of things, well, it was their own fault for not keeping up, now wasn’t it.   
  
Not that Sherlock hadn’t been getting better about it or perhaps John was simply getting better at keeping up, but this time, John was hardly to blame. They'd been running through a grocery warehouse, chasing after some bastard who'd decided the best way to elude capture was to toss tins of food at them. Not the most effective of weapons but they did the job, particularly when a family-size tin of peaches caught John on the side of the head.   
  
He supposed it counted as some form of luck that it had only struck him a glancing blow. Blood had already been sheeting down the side of his face by the time John managed to drag out his handkerchief and to his credit, Sherlock had actually hesitated, taking two steps towards him before John waved him off.   
  
"I’m fine, g’wan!" John shooed him on and Sherlock took him at his word, ducking away from a jar of pickles that shattered to the ground in a spray of vinegary liquid. He heard the clatter of a door and then silence; probably the both of them were continuing the chase on the outside. John managed to get to his feet and made his way through the maze of boxes, sidestepping the splattered remains of their battle royale. Peaches, pickles, and two jars of salad cream. It was regular buffet that he'd rather not have decorating his shoes.  
  
There was no sign of Sherlock or the tin-chucker and John sighed to himself as he made his way to the main road. In the twenty minutes it took him find a cabbie willing to take him on while he was holding a bloody hankie to his head, John had gotten two text messages from Sherlock, one from Lestrade, and one from an unknown number suggesting that if he needed money in a hurry, they had a way to help.   
  
John waved off the nervous offers to take him to a hospital and gave him the address. No blurred vision, his pupils were the same size, and he’d never lost consciousness. The last thing John wanted right now was to be sitting in the Emergency Department for hours to be seen, only to be told a little ice and rest would fix him up.   
  
Along the way, he texted Lestrade that Sherlock had their suspect, texted Sherlock that he was fine, thank you, and the police were on their way, and deleted the last before settling back with a sigh, dabbing at his head with a hiss of pain. The blood was already clotting, certainly making a mess of his hair and John decided to keep the pressure on. The cabbie had been nice enough to pick John up; bleeding on his seats would probably be an unkindness.  
  
For all that, the cabbie was happy enough to let him out at Baker Street, taking the fold of bills from John's bloody hand with a distasteful curl to his lips. Not a soul on the streets looked at John as he trotted up to the door. He was only a bloodied man on the street, just another day in London.   
  
John managed his keys one-handed, kicking the door shut louder than he'd intended and it was enough to draw Mrs Hudson out into the hall. She'd barely peeked out of her door, eyes widening as they caught the bloody handkerchief and John knew he was in for it.   
  
"Oh, my goodness, John!" She came out in a whirlwind of motherly concern, already reaching for him. "What happened, are you all right?"  
  
"It’s fine, really it is," John protested. Too late. She was already drawing him up the stairs, rambling on as though he hadn't spoken a word.   
  
"And where is Sherlock, I’d like to know. Letting you run about the city on your own like this! It's not proper, him off on his own while you're hurt!"  
  
"He's catching criminals, Mrs Hudson, I promise," John tried.  
  
"Come on then, let's have a look at it, poor dear," she went on, tugging him up another step, still muttering under her breath. "Need to have a word with that boy, letting you take a cab in your condition."  
  
John only hesitated a moment before he gave in, letting her cluck and coo over him. In short order she had him in their flat and inspected the wound, pronouncing that he would live despite the efforts of Sherlock, and shooed off to shower while she made tea.   
  
He stood under the pour of hot water, washing his hair gingerly. There was a tender lump beneath a ragged cut, nothing that felt too serious to his knowledgeable fingers and John settled for giving it a good scrubbing, wincing all the while. One of Sherlock's dressing gowns was hanging on the back of the door and John only hesitated a moment before slipping it on. Putting back on his own grimy clothes was a less than appealing option and wandering out in only a towel in front of Mrs Hudson only marginally more so.   
  
The sleeves hung past his fingertips and John rolled them up sourly, relieved at least that he wasn't tripping over the hem. It was bad enough that he probably looked like a boy dressed in his father's nightclothes, he didn't want to fall over his own feet and earn another concussion.   
  
A pot of tea was already on the table when John got out of the shower, steam wafting from the spout. Alongside it was a plate of biscuits, his favourite, and John knew for a fact there were none in  _their_ flat. At Mrs Hudson’s direction, John sat down and obediently drank his tea, only pausing to take the pills she pressed into his hand. He was already drowsing, chin propped on one hand as he absently chewed on a biscuit when she settled an ice pack on his head.   
  
The cold woke him a bit. John hissed out sharply, wincing, and Mrs Hudson patted him on the shoulder.   
  
"There you are, dear, that will take the swelling down," Mrs Hudson said, clearing away the tea. "Don’t you go falling asleep just yet, not with that bump on your head."  
  
John didn’t bother to protest that he was a doctor and a perfectly good one at that. He only nodded. "Yes, Mrs Hudson. Thank you."  
  
"Oh, you two," she sighed. She gave him another pat on the shoulder. "I’ll be just downstairs if you need me."  
  
"Thank you," John repeated and blinked in surprise as she pressed a kiss against his temple.  
  
"You’re good boys, the both of you." She shook her head. "Just rest now."  
  
"Yes, Mrs Hudson," John said with a sigh. He buried his face into his arm and held the ice pack against his head, already half-asleep when he heard her on the stairs.  
  
Drowsy as he was, though, sleep eluded him. The ache in his head, dulled with ice and pills, was still enough to send a throb to swell behind his eyes, worsened by the light creeping in around the barrier of his arm. John wrapped his other arm around his head as well, awkwardly trying to keep a grip on the ice pack.   
  
Not that his bed might not have been better choice or even the sofa but Mrs Hudson did have a point about not sleeping just yet. A few hours to make sure he would actually wake up from a nap would be the wiser option. That left him with little to do; telly sounded abominable with the ache in his head and reading was right out.   
  
A sort of cloudy thinking was the only option John really had left and that was exactly what he’d been avoiding doing for the past few weeks. He'd managed to dodge it with great enthusiasm, truth be told, and now here, alone in their flat, it was the dressing gown of all things that finally did him in. His face buried in the silky cloth, breathing it in, and even through his fogged mental state or perhaps because of it, John couldn't escape an observation.   
  
The dressing gown smelled like Sherlock and John knew that very clearly because only a couple of weeks ago he'd been sprawled out on the floor of this very room with Sherlock. He'd breathed it in then like he breathed it in now and John groaned aloud, finally, finally allowing himself to think on it.  
  
A few weeks, that’s how long it had been, since The Incident. That was how John thought of it. He'd had plenty of incidents in his life, even more since he'd met Sherlock Holmes but this one stood out remarkably in capital letters; The Incident.   
  
After a lifetime of contentment in heterosexuality he'd taken a wild leap off the other side of the dock and with Sherlock Holmes of all people. Not that John thought anyone else would be surprised by it. Half of London seemed to think they were already shagging and the other half just hadn’t met them yet.   
  
John thought it was more likely people would be shocked to know their sexual adventures consisted of exactly one wank on their sitting room floor. Just that, and John had spent the past few weeks alternately thinking about it and trying  _not_  to think about it at all.   
  
One wank, a good wank, certainly, but just the one and John hadn’t been capable of much thought right afterward. He’d gotten a kiss from Sherlock, astonishingly gentle and not at all what he would've expected before he’d been pushed firmly in the direction of the loo. John had taken a shower, standing there under the scalding fall of water until he was nearly falling asleep on the cool tiles and by the time he’d gotten out, Sherlock had already been at his microscope, lost in some experiment.   
  
John had stood there uncertainly, steamy and damp from the shower and completely out of his depth. If it had been anyone else, he would have figured something had to be said. Some examination of emotions and friendship and…and whatever bloody mess they could come up with. Who knew about Sherlock Holmes and he certainly hadn’t seemed interested in a chat.   
  
He’d stood there some time, feet growing uncomfortably cold on the tiles and Sherlock hadn’t so much as looked at him. "Goodnight, then," he'd said eventually and was met with a long silence. He'd already had one foot on the stairs when Sherlock finally spoke.   
  
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock replied. He'd glanced up, their eyes meeting briefly, then back down at whatever he was examining and that had been that. The next morning they’d had coffee just like any other morning and a client had been ringing the bell before the dishes had even been washed. One wank, just the one, and they hadn’t mentioned it again.   
  
Only John couldn’t stop  _thinking_  about it. He couldn't help glancing down at Sherlock's feet when he wandered around the flat. Sherlock had taken out the stitches himself, John had noticed, no surprise there.   
  
He’d even been dreaming about it, as though his subconscious had decided that it had had quite enough of Afghanistan, thank you, and instead dropped a problematic bit of sexual identity crisis into his lap. Plop, there you are, Johnny boy, and now what shall we do with this?  
  
Pity he still hadn't decided and Sherlock didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to help him along with it. Nothing had changed at all, not Sherlock’s attitude, not even his tendency to wander about in his bare feet and if he’d noticed John’s guilty staring, he hadn’t mentioned it--  
  
\--and just who was John trying to fool? Of course Sherlock had noticed it. What was unusual was he hadn’t said anything about it and that meant either he was quite finished with it or possibly he was waiting for John to draw his own conclusions.   
  
John and his subconscious were still gamely trying to work that out.   
  
That left him here, icy water starting to drip down the back of his neck, head aching even without the complications in his thoughts and he might have been sitting there all night, turning things over and over in his head if the sound of the door shutting too hard hadn’t rang through his head like a jab with an ice pick.   
  
"Tedious," Sherlock muttered from behind him, "An entire day wasted in monotonous tedium. If I wanted to work on a case with common street thugs, I wouldn’t need to wait for Lestrade to call me, I could simply venture out into the city and walk through alleyways until I pulled a lucky one. We may as well post a sign on the door, please, attempt a mugging, we pay top dollar!"  
  
John turned his head to peer out from beneath his melting compress, watching mutely as Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, grumbling on about Lestrade, Scotland Yard, and entirely of London and…lemon tarts? He blinked at that part and decided not to ask. His head was aching enough already.   
  
Incredible as it was how much Sherlock could see in the tiniest details, it was equally amazing how much he didn't see. Probably more like how much he doesn't bother to see and why should he? All the troublesome tidbits, all the boring little details. Just more things to delete from that supercomputer Sherlock called a brain.   
  
There were a few little things that John did expect from the man though and he waited, patiently, through the rant until…Sherlock stopped dead, pale eyes raking over John and widening at the sight of the ice pack.   
  
"John, are you all right? You said you were fine!" John thought that concern might surprise some, not him, never him. Sherlock was an expert at seeing and also at showing others what he wanted them to see; John knew better, had known before he'd ever had Sherlock kneeling in front of him, tearing off a jacket lined with explosives.   
  
"I am fine, it's fine," John sighed. "It's not bad. Bit of a cut and…hey!"  
  
Sherlock was already pulling the ice pack away and sending a wash of cold water down the back of John’s neck. He ignored John’s startled yelp of protest, batting away his hands as he examined it.   
  
"I am a doctor, you know," John subsided with a peeved mutter.   
  
"And that allows you to see the top of your head how?" Sherlock demanded.  
  
"It doesn't but I've already been cozened up tonight by Mrs Hudson. It’s fine."   
  
Sherlock’s fingers were gentle against the top of his head. "You might have texted me. It would have been an excellent excuse to get away from Lestrade’s dullness." And before John could do more than marvel at how Sherlock would make John's injury about himself he added, "Budge up, I need more light.  
  
John sighed and straightened, reaching up automatically to catch his balance as Sherlock tugged him forward.  
  
And froze, the implications of their position striking hard. He was nose to nose with Sherlock's belt buckle, his hands on Sherlock's hips and his shirt brushing softly against John's forehead every time Sherlock inhaled.   
  
His badly repressed sexual identity crisis chose to poke its head out of the closet, reminding him that, oy! There was a decision to be made and soon at that. Do you or don't you, Mr Watson, Captain Watson, Doctor Watson. Different people he had been, different hats he'd worn. Did he want to add My Boyfriend Watson to that or perhaps Gay Watson, be a bit crasser, there. Do you or don't you, Watson, do you or don't you, John.  
  
"It's not a deep cut," Sherlock murmured, still inspecting it, unaware for once of John's crisis. "I assume you disinfected it?"  
  
"Course," John said distantly and any hope that Sherlock hadn't heard the faint huskiness in his voice evaporated like steam. His long fingers went still against John's scalp, two of them on the left just touching the top of his ear. John closed his eyes.   
  
"John," Sherlock said, low. A question and not, so much meaning in one word. A question,  _the_ question, do you, don't you…  
  
"Yeah," John whispered, leaning forward just enough to press his face against the warm cloth covering Sherlock's belly. Hands slid down from his head to his shoulders, tightening there. Not pushing him away, only holding on.  
  
"I'm not gay, you know," John said. The words were a little muffled, lost in the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt. Silk, surely. The man wore three-hundred quid dressing gowns; surely his shirts were grossly expensive.   
  
A soft exhale above him. John could feel Sherlock draw in another breath, the gentle rise and fall beneath his cheek as Sherlock murmured in reply, "No. No, you're not."  
  
"I'm straight," John went on, swallowing down the rising thickness in his throat as he breathed in the clean scent of laundry detergent, of Sherlock's soap, the faint, warm traces of sweat; they'd been running, the both of them, before John had managed to get clocked in the head. The combination was heady, mesmerizing. John sucked in another shaky lungful and held it. Christ. Christ, this shouldn't be making him hard. His head was aching, a more distant pain. One of Sherlock's hands had drifted back up, curved around the back, his fingers sifting through the short strands of John's hair as though he was reading the various bumps in his skull. Perhaps he was.   
  
"I know," Sherlock whispered and whether he'd pulled that from his examination of John's head, he didn't say. "No childhood experimentations, no confused stages of puberty, not even during your military service."  
  
"Not even," John agreed, vaguely. One of his fingers drifted between the buttonholes, touched skin, soft in its own way, unlike the shirt, warm, living. Felt the slightest twitch as Sherlock startled. His hand stilled, briefly, until John tilted his head back, just a bit. An invitation, a plea, didn't matter so long as Sherlock's fingertips stirred to life again, his short nails scratching briefly in a way that made John stifle a groan.  
  
"I'm completely straight," John said, muffling it into the expensive material of Sherlock's shirt. He had two fingers in the buttonhole now, stretching it, distorting it as they grazed hot skin. "But you're not."  
  
"John-"   
  
"People assume when they see us, assume things about us and you never say anything," John interrupted. Sherlock had left him to draw his own conclusions for weeks and now that John had, he wasn’t about to stop now. Though how was it, John wondered distantly, that he could sound so calm, so easy? Inside, he felt like a bloody volcano, tremors of heat in his belly, settling between his legs. His cock was already aching hard behind the thin barrier of the dressing gown and he popped the button on Sherlock's shirt without another thought. Two buttons. Three. Enough to slide his entire hand inside to rest against the warm, pale skin there. The soft fuzz of hair against his palm was ticklish and John was so hard, he wanted so much.   
  
An inhale, exhale, so quietly from above, felt ragged and obvious against his hand. "John, I never said—"  
  
"Never said anything," John interrupted. "Never encouraged that line of thinking, right? That’s what you're going to tell me. But see, that's the problem, you never corrected anyone and that is not you."  
  
"John—" As close to a plea as John had ever heard from him. No, not true, by the pool, when John had been standing, so conscious of the heavy explosives that were embracing him obscenely and yet, he'd hurt for Sherlock to see the uncommon shock, the disbelief, the  _betrayal_ , so visible on a face that was so often unreadable.   
  
Don't think about that, John told himself, fumbling open the rest of the buttons. This, this was something completely different, or not quite. Would Sherlock have been so lost had it been someone, anyone, else? John didn't think so and that knowledge was its own form of headiness, made it easy to press his mouth against that pale skin.  
  
His lips brushed against Sherlock's belly as he whispered, "You can't stand not correcting people." One kiss, another, following the thin trail of hair downward. "You literally cannot bear it and yet you'd allow people to assume we're a couple? Hardly. You'd want me to believe it's because you're above all that and you simply don't care what others think. Misleading, now,  _that_  you do."  
  
"John…John…"  
  
Oh, to hear his name like that, from that voice, that mouth that always had such cleverness spouting from it. A regular fountain of knowledge was Sherlock, but all he seemed capable of at the moment was a bare gasp. He felt it when Sherlock groped for the table behind him, leaning against it as John opened his trousers. His other hand was a rigid pressure on the back of John's head. Not pushing, not guiding. Just there, another little bit of Sherlock to add into the rest of it, surrounding him.   
  
Silk pants. Well, they would be, wouldn't they. There was a spot of dampness at the front and John didn't even consider, leaned in to press a kiss against it and felt Sherlock jolt as John's mouth touched the head of his cock through the thin silk. He tasted salt, mouthed the fabric until it was wetter, spit and pre-cum, and fuck, he'd never done this, never, his own ragged, frantic breathing drawing in the scent of it. Again, soap, Sherlock was a fastidious sort of bloke, but also something richer, familiar. The muskiness of male arousal, something he'd only gotten before from himself and then it had been a distant sort of knowledge.   
  
Not like this, surrounded, enveloped by the smoggy heat of it and blindly, John tugged his pants out of the way. He wanted that bare skin, wanted to taste it, ignored the tremor in his hands as he reached up, held Sherlock's cock still so he could pressed his lips to the head. Felt the cling of hot, damp skin, licked his lips and tasted salt. Sherlock made a sound, a lovely, deep little noise and John wanted that as well. Again, wanted it all.  
  
Gently pulled the foreskin down until he could find the slick wetness at the tip with his tongue, tasting fresh, slippery salt and he was doing this, he really was, opening his mouth a little wider to take it in, enough that he could suck. Uncertainly, at first, surely a clumsy, amateur effort and Sherlock, who hated anything done inexpertly, cursed aloud, his hand trying painfully to clutch at John's short hair for the briefest of moments.   
  
He closed his eyes and tried not to think, tried to simply do, one hand wrapped around the base of Sherlock's cock as he took more in, curved his tongue around as best he could. It was more difficult than John would have thought, if he'd ever thought about it. Hard to keep sucking, hard not to take in too much even though Sherlock was rigidly still, leaning against the table. Hard not to drool, hard to breathe, especially when he felt like he might hyperventilate, might pass out as dots wavered behind his closed eyes.   
  
John had to pause a moment, drawing in deep breaths even as he lapped at the ridge around the head, let his tongue glide around it. Sliding his mouth down and licking between his own fingers and Sherlock was the one trembling now, a steady tremor that John could feel.  
  
"Enough. Enough, John," Sherlock's voice was a deep, harsh wash of sound and John had no time for protest as he was tugged abruptly to his feet and then just as abruptly shoved off of them. There was a fluttery thunk of papers hitting the floor and scattering about, the table hard against John's back. Sprawled over the table, Sherlock over him, feeling the damp heat of his prick carried through the thinness of his dressing gown against John's belly.   
  
Something was pushed from the side of the table, shattering to the floor and automatically John tried to look at it. Tried and failed, Sherlock refused to let him go. His hands were on John’s face, palms damp, holding him still for a hot mouth.   
  
Sherlock kissed like he was learning his taste, sweeping into his mouth with the same arrogant certainty that let him swan into police investigations where he'd been invited and yet was still thoroughly unwelcome.   
  
His own lips felt too warm and swollen and he winced as Sherlock kissed him harshly. Invaded him, his tongue as sharp a force as the words it wielded.   
  
"Sherlock," he tried, tearing his mouth away. "Sher—" he bit off a yelp, Sherlock's body between his legs a heavy weight. Unfamiliar, utterly unfamiliar, to be beneath someone larger than him, Sherlock's hand curling under one of his knees, tugging it up and then out, spreading him open.   
  
Christ, he was sprawled across a table, Sherlock's hands on him like he had every intention of fucking him and John wasn't entirely certain what his answer would be to that.   
  
He wasn't sure which frightened him more, the idea that Sherlock might not accept a no or the possibility that  _he_  might say yes.   
  
Better to not be asked, then, better to lie here, gasping like a beached fish, his own voice little more than strangled groans, Sherlock's name mangled into harsh consonants and slurred vowels.   
  
"John," Sherlock's voice was a husky rasp, deep even than usual, "John, tell me what you want."  
  
"I…" It was all he managed, words jumbling on his tongue in a tangle of syllables and of course Sherlock would want to talk now when John had never wanted to less in his life.   
  
"John, you need to tell me," he insisted. His teeth were sharp against the line of John’s chin. "I won't do anything you don't want."  
  
"Then bloody well do something so I can object to it!" John snapped, "I'm already here, I…" he yelped, almost bit his tongue as Sherlock jerked him to his feet, whirling him around and knocking the breath from him as he shoved John back down on the table. He scrabbled for the edge, white-knuckled and his breath hoarse gasps. His dressing gown was yanked up, the cold rush of air as startling on his bare skin as the sudden touch of warm, strong hands. Kneading the muscles with deft touches, sliding lower and Christ, oh, Christ, they were going to…  
  
"Sherlock," John whispered, licked his lips and tasted salt. He had no plans on what to say, no idea at all. There was a gust of breath against him, warm and damp at the small of his back and then lower, the wet slide of a mouth against his hip leaving behind a trail of cooling dampness as Sherlock moved lower.   
  
"John," Sherlock murmured, his breath like a warning and then, Oh, God, the unmistakable slickness of a tongue against him, tracing the cleft of his arse.  
  
"Gah!" It was less a word than a cry, bitten off and muffled as John buried his face into his forearms even as Sherlock lapped against him, hot blurts of breath mingled with the delicate touch of his tongue, circling over the opening.   
  
"Oh, Christ," John moaned, his voice cracking at the slick persistence of Sherlock's mouth against him, the lithe wriggle of his tongue. He was quivering, hands aching from clutching the edge of the table when Sherlock finally pulled away. Distantly, he heard the sound of a drawer sliding open and rummaging about.   
  
John couldn't move, sprawled out, spread out, his legs quivering and he didn't even flinch as Sherlock pressed fully against him, the length of his chest against the bareness of John's back and his hands on John's hips, tugging, drawing John back, tilting him. Positioning him, fuck, he was--  
  
"John," Sherlock's voice was low, nuzzling against John's ear. He tipped his head up helplessly into it. "I'm going to fuck you now."  
  
"Right—" John whispered, inanely. "Right, you just—"  
  
"I need you to say yes," Belatedly realized that Sherlock was giving him a choice. Choice, did he really have a—he moaned loudly at the cool, slick touch of fingers against his arse. One finger circled against him, over and over, pressing just barely inside and then withdrawing.   
  
Oh, that wasn't fair.   
  
"Say yes, John," A command, a plea.   
  
"Oh, that's so—" John was starting to wonder if he'd ever be able to finish a sentence again. The heat in his stomach was familiar, the clench of desire; the ache in his arse less so and he moaned aloud, voice cracking, as one wet finger pressed into him, one slow, deep push before it withdrew.  
  
"Yes, John?" Sherlock persisted. The thickness of his voice, deeper than John had ever heard it, was like a jolt of heat right down his spine. "I want you to say it. Say yes, for me."  
  
Into him again, with a little crook and a twist, and John sobbed aloud, catching the skin of his forearm in his teeth, biting softly to muffle his own whimpers. He'd never tried this, never even considered, and Sherlock worked him with clever fingers, a second slicking in next to the first and pressing against someplace inside him that sent a harsh bolt of unsettling heat through him. He was a doctor, he knew how this went, and his mind was utterly blank.   
  
"John?" Softer than before, coaxing. "Please, John."  
  
"Yes," John barely heard it, curled his tongue around the word, tasted the tiny thread of sound. "Yes. Sherlock."  
  
He heard the whisper of cloth, stunningly loud in a room where the only sound was desperate breathing. John bit his lip, trying not to brace for what he knew was coming.   
  
Even expected, the blunt, slippery pressure against him was alarming and John felt his eyes widen, watering as Sherlock pushed into him. Sherlock muttered one quiet sound into the back of his neck, the heat of his breath nothing like a distraction. Not when Sherlock was pressing into him in degrees, the firm immediacy of his cock against John's arse almost to the point of pain and then it eased back, melted away, before rocking into him again. Leaning into him in waves and lulls, and John swore he felt every centimetre when finally, finally, Sherlock managed to pry the head into him.   
  
"Gah," John whimpered, tasting his own sweat and spit as he bit his lip, his thighs shifting further apart when Sherlock hesitated. No, no stopping, they were doing this now, they were committed, and perhaps Sherlock saw what he was thinking, in the line of his tense shoulders or the obvious tilt of his hips. Perhaps he just knew; half the time John wondered if Sherlock wasn't a bloody psychic after all.  
  
Another slow, soft kiss to the back of his neck, lips dragging along his hairline to John's ear, ragged breaths a caress of their own as Sherlock whispered, "John, breathe."  
  
Breathe, yes, he could do that, John sucked in a hard breath, two, tasted the heat of their sex, and Christ, how could he ever eat breakfast at this table again? Any real thoughts skittered back into blatant nothingness as Sherlock braced his hands on the table, the only warning John got before he pushed again, one firm, deliberate shove. The long, slick slide into him drew John up on his toes, his own hands scrabbling at the table desperately for a handhold, just something to hang on to, until Sherlock's fingers entwined with his own, holding him.   
  
Please, he thought desperately, please, please, it ached, it felt wonderful, contrasting sensation skittering over him, and John dimly realized he was saying it aloud, a breathless chant, "Please, please…Sherlock…"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock whispered, "Yes. John, you—uhh." His voice cracked on a groan, one of his hands tearing free of John's and grabbing at his hip, stilling the frantic rocking that John hadn't even realized he was doing. "John, you need to relax before I can move."  
  
John shook his head before he even finished, resting his forehead against the cooler wood of the table as he struggled with his urge to fight the steel of Sherlock's grip. "No. No, you need to--right now. I need you to."  
  
 _Fuck me_ , he couldn't say but it didn't make it any less true. He  _needed_  it, he could feel Sherlock pressed along his back and thighs, the rough weave of his clothes not nearly as satisfying as skin would have been. The only bareness against him were Sherlock's hands, his mouth against John's ear, and that single point where Sherlock's cock was inside him unmoving and that needed to change right this second.  
  
John was pushing up, shifting back as best he could in a deliberate writhe and he felt as much as heard Sherlock curse, the hot rush of breath against his ear and then the thick pressure inside him as he did move, just a bit, hard in and then back out before he stilled again.   
  
"Damn it!" John snarled, fighting against Sherlock's weight as much as his grip, "Would you just do it!"  
  
"All right, John," Sherlock said and for a second he sounded so  _normal_ , so unaffected, that John's stomach clenched. Not for long, not even long enough to tense as Sherlock settled against him and _moved_ . The first hard thrust drew a shocked cry from John, his breath stuttering through it and the next made him smack his head into the table hard enough to see stars.   
  
Christ, it was perfect, the harsh stretch of each quick-quick shove into him, the deep burn inside him melting into need as John tried to twist back against Sherlock's hips. His only leverage was the bare touch of his toes on the floor and he felt the table skitter forward enough for Sherlock to step into it. The change of angle made John hiss, taking in more than he'd expected.  
  
"Yes, fuck yes," John gasped, abandoning any effort to move, hanging on as Sherlock gathered up his hips in both hands, pulling him back until his feet were flat on the floor again. Manoeuvring him onto his elbows and John only understood when Sherlock pressed in again, deep, ah, fuck, deep, and John whined out a choked, desperate cry, each slow thrust sending a lightning pulse of pleasure through him. There was no room left in his brain for thinking, nothing, just Sherlock. Engulfed in him, the bruising pressure of his fingertips digging into John's hips as he pulled them back into each rock of his hips, the sharp dig of his forehead suddenly between his shoulder blades. John could feel the hot blurts of breath through his dressing gown, each one edged with a whine, a soft, ah, ah,  _ah_ , and not a single word.   
  
Speechless, maybe, John thought with dizzy triumph, Sherlock turned to a tightly wound parcel of need, the smooth movement of his hips faltering. One hand slipped from his hip, slithering beneath John and his own breath caught as it wrapped confidently around his cock, giving him something to push into.   
  
"Oh, Sherlock," John groaned aloud, and then again, just to hear the name wrapped in the throatiness of his own voice, almost unrecognizable. "Sherlock."  
  
It earned him one hard thrust, dragging him back up on his toes, the jolt of pleasure slamming through him with a brilliant surge of sensation. John yelped aloud, past caring if anyone could hear him, the building pressure in his balls familiar but nothing about this was familiar. Not the thick pressure of Sherlock inside him, not the heat against his back as Sherlock bore down on him, heavy and wonderful, and the smooth rock of his hips went relentless, hard-quick-quick and John was trapped between the table and Sherlock.  
  
The wet sound of it was obscene, ringing in his ears with Sherlock's suddenly desperate gasps and his hand went tight around John, pleasure reeling through him as sharp teeth buried in between his shoulder blades. The pain of it was bright and immediate and perfect, orgasm slamming into him from both sides. Slippery heat inside him and then against him as he spilled over the clench of Sherlock's hand, slicking his grip.  
  
John opened his eyes as soon as he could manage, blinking away the dampness blurring his vision. Or perhaps it was a lack of oxygen, Sherlock was bloody well heavy and every bit of him was currently on top of John, pinning him to the table and making every breath a gaspy little wheeze.  
  
"Can't breathe," John mumbled out, tasting sweat. His cheek was glued to the table with it and the rest of him was glued with…well, probably better not to think about it just yet. A shower would be a lovely thing right about now.   
  
Sherlock made a feeble sound against his shoulder and didn't move, dragging his mouth over the silk of his own dressing gown. John could feel wetness seeping through and realized Sherlock was damn well drooling on him. Christ, didn't he have enough of a coating of bodily fluids for the moment?  
  
"Shove over," John wheezed out and finally, Sherlock pushed up on his hands. John saw with some bemusement that Sherlock was actually trembling and managed to worm one hand over and patted Sherlock's. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I've never been very good at this, John, but I am almost positive that I'm supposed to be the one asking that," Sherlock murmured it into the back of John's neck, licking at the damp bristle of his hair and John shivered, helplessly.   
  
"It's all right, I'm a doctor," John mumbled.  
  
"I'm not entirely sure what that means in this context," Sherlock said, shifting his weight and it was enough to draw John's attention back down and…oh. Right. "This might be uncomfortable, John. Take a deep breath."  
  
"I can't, you're on top of me…ah, fuck!" John yelped, hissing as Sherlock pulled out of him. Christ, yeah, that was going to be a little sore for a few days.   
  
"I may have been a little more enthusiastic than I intended," Sherlock coughed a little and John managed to turn his head enough to give him a baleful glare.  
  
"A bit, yeah," John said tartly. "I said I wasn't gay, exactly what part of that sounded like please do fuck the hell out of me?"  
  
John blinked as Sherlock leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against his ear. "I suspect it was the part where you said yes."  
  
"Yeah, there was that," John sighed, closing his eyes as Sherlock tugged on the lobe of his ear with his teeth. "I don't think I can move," he admitted, quietly.  
  
"I'll help you," Sherlock murmured, and promptly put words to action, smoothing the dressing gown down before tugging John to his feet. It was more than a little embarrassing to wobble on his feet, almost staggering to the sofa and sprawling down on it. Sherlock let him go and John took his first good look at him since…well, since Sherlock had fucked him into a table, that was when.   
  
Every part of him was a mess, John realized, raking his gaze down the long line of Sherlock's body. From the wild, sweaty mass of his hair to his rumpled trousers, it would be obvious to anyone just what Sherlock had been doing. If anyone would believe Sherlock had been doing it and John couldn't help but wonder just how many people had seen Sherlock like this. Certainly he had seemed to know what he was doing and if that made a tight little seed of something like jealousy sprout in the pit of John's stomach right now, he wasn't much in the mood to care. His head ached, his arse ached, and a baker's dozen of new bruises were making themselves known even as he sat there.   
  
Sherlock's feet were bare, John saw distantly, and he wondered just when Sherlock had kicked off his shoes. Even as he stared down at them, he noticed Sherlock shifting, pushing one hand through the mess of his hair.   
  
"I know this is a bit awkward, John," he said abruptly. "I know you aren't gay." He turned on his heel, pacing back and forth in the cramped space between the sofa and the chairs and John watched him, watched the movement of the muscles beneath his shirt. It was mostly unbuttoned and completely untucked, his trousers barely done up, his belt lost somewhere in the depths of their sitting room and John only watched. Observed, really.   
  
"…don't want to interfere with our friendship…not really good at this…." Distantly, John heard Sherlock talking, rambling like he often did, and what John was seeing was the faint swollen look of his mouth, the way Sherlock wet his lips with the flick of his tongue. The skittering nervousness in his eyes as he looked at John and then away and his hands, rarely still, were fluttering now like birds, flapping away as he prattled on about how things needn't change between them and Sherlock would understand if—  
  
"Shut up," John said, clearly and Sherlock stopped as though he'd been clocked with a tin of peaches, blinking at John like the lights were suddenly too bright.   
  
"John," Sherlock said and it was that same raw edge, helpless, lost, that John had heard at the pool. Something in his heart tightened, a little clench of pain and then John took a breath and nodded to himself.   
  
All right, then. Choice made.   
  
"Shut up," John repeated, softer, "And just come here, would you?"  
  
Two grown men didn't fit particularly well on a sofa but it worked well enough when one of them was Sherlock Holmes. John took a slow, deep breath and Sherlock was still heavy, curled against him, and his hair was ticklish against John's nose, smelling of shampoo and sweat and maybe a hint of John's cologne. That was all right, John buried his face in it and inhaled deeply, held Sherlock against him until he tilted his head up, cautiously, and his lips tasted sulky and warm. Soft kisses shared between them until Sherlock sighed and rested his head on John's chest.   
  
This was insane, John decided. It couldn't possibly work; he wasn't gay and Sherlock might be, if he was anything. Absolutely insane, but not any more than any other day.   
  
"I'm fine," John murmured into Sherlock's hair. He felt Sherlock take a quick, shuddery breath. One of his hands sliding down to circle John's wrist, pressing against his pulse point and that was all right, too. "I'm just fine."  
  
And John thought maybe he really was, or he would be. This was…this was fine and John had no intention of getting left behind again.   
  


-finis-


End file.
